Gotham Boys
by seditionary
Summary: The Joker has escaped from Arkham, but doesn't feel very well. Batman is called in to re-capture him and discovers a terrifying secret. Can he get the madman back without endangering the citizens of Gotham? Slash, smut. Dr. Crane has a cameo appearance.
1. Action

_**A/N: This was written for the Gotham Idol competition on Live Journal. Each chapter is a response to a prompt, this first one was "Action." This chaper is told from the Joker's POV; that will vary from chapter to chapter. This is Nolanverse, but not particularly relevant to the events of TDK. Also--I do not own Nolanverse or DC Comics anything**_**, and no money is made from this, it's just for fun.**

**FYI, the story will eventually feature Jonathan Crane in a supporting role; later chapters will have m/m sex and bad language throughout. **

**Please review and let me know what you think!!**

**01/27/2010: Fanfic author Ididntdoit07 pointed out that the device of having the Joker use the hypodermic on the orderly in order to escape coincidentally appeared in her earlier-posted story, "Moonstruck". So, I toddled off to read it, and it's awesome, check it out! Thanks.**

*********

Mentally, the Joker was ready for action. Oh, yeah, his stint in Arkham had been too long. Too long, too boring, and too damn depressing. There was no way he could wait another minute for something exciting to happen. He missed his Bat, and he missed his mind--he felt like the Arkham pill jockeys had sent it off on a long vacation somewhere nice, but without leaving a forwarding address--and enough was enough. When the opportunity came, you better believe he seized it.

Although, to be honest, being laid up in the infirmary had been a welcome change of pace. There were windows! And sharp things....

But, no action.

Well, other than the fun of stabbing the hypodermic loaded with his sedative into the lone orderly's neck when he came to give him his sponge bath. It was regrettable--the Joker _reeeally_ liked his sponge baths--but he'd been hazily observing the situation ever since he regained consciousness and he knew--that was the golden moment. One hand was free, the orderly was too slow and too stupid to realize what was happening, and it was all over in a split second. Yeah, that dose would stop a normal-sized horse, although, for him it was just a nice buzz--but for the stooge with the tray and washcloths? It put him in la-la-land before he could punch the red "fuck, I'm in trouble" button on the intercom.

Hilarious.

He absently ran his bare fingers over the swollen needle marks on his arm--he'd gotten excited and jerked the freakin' IVs out too quick--and now his skin was bruised and irritated. Same story on his wrists and ankles, but for different reasons--goddamn straps they used to hold him down rubbed him raw every time he had a coughing fit, which was only ALL THE FUCKING TIME--they said it was pneumonia.

The illness had taken its toll, that was for sure. He felt like crap. Cheap Arkham doctors, what'd they do, troll for veterinary school drop-outs? Physically, he was barely a step above the walking dead, but his mind was buzzing as usual.

It had been pathetically easy; he'd lifted the keys from the idiot's belt, unlocked the grate on a window, scrambled outside, and scuttled along out of range of the security cams to the gate where the employees parked; he'd used the guy's keycard, and voila! Freedom.

It would have been perfect, except this particular doofus didn't own a car, so he'd had to hoof it down to the Narrows--slowly, painfully, he was terribly out of shape and not breathing so good--but here he was, and now it was time to move forward. Although, he was a little tired. And drowsy. Maybe he should find a safe place to crash for a bit....

He stifled a deep cough and fiddled with the lock on the window of an old warehouse. Shit, did he have a fever? It was cold and rainy, and he was clad only in his Arkham whites. He'd have to wait until he felt better and was suitably armed before returning to retrieve his own clothing from the asylum storeroom. He disregarded the chill, although it occurred to him that people actually _died_ from pneumonia, and here he was, just asking for a relapse--a wracking cough forced its way up from his lungs, and he coughed so hard he saw black spots before his eyes.

_Damn it. _He didn't like being sick. And, what a crummy way to die, drowning in your own fluids....

He popped the lock open and crawled inside; it was a long-abandoned building on the waterfront and there was nothing inside except some frozen old machinery, empty boxes, and the smell of rust and stale motor oil. He didn't care, all he wanted was a place to hole up while he figured things out. That, and the Bat. He wanted his Bat and he wanted him now, but in his current condition he knew he couldn't attract his attention. Batman was attracted to chaos, and the Joker couldn't drum up a crowd at a hanging the way he felt now.

Although, the groundwork had been laid. If he could just remember where he'd left the damn detonator....

Too much inactivity for too long. He had to gather his strength. Enough strength to find some action, which this place definitely DIDN'T HAVE ANY OF, but that was ok. For now.

The Joker made a makeshift bed of some flattened cardboard and old newspapers he found in a corner. He rested his head on his arm and drifted off.

His body would be out of commission for a little while longer; but his dreams took him high above the city, flying over rooftops, dropping into alleys, running, running, chasing and being chased, always the Bat, always a step ahead or a step behind, it didn't matter as long as they were together, or nearly so, as long as HE was thinking about _him, _his enemy, that was good enough, good enough for now, good enough to keep him going until....

Until the Bat was ready for some _real_ action.


	2. Kink

**A/N: This is from Bruce's pov and contains some strong sexual imagery, FYI. Please let me know what you think!! Thanks for reading!**

*******

It was late. Bruce Wayne had returned from his office and headed straight to the bat cave, not bothering to find and greet Alfred, not even buzzing him on the intercom to let him know he was in.

He was like that a lot, lately. Alfred wanted to assume it was because he was exhausted, wrapped up in his work, or perhaps worried about a case, the details of which he didn't yet feel were appropriate to share with his long-time butler. Alfred understood these things, and he didn't ask questions, simply made himself available if the master of the house wished to chat.

But Bruce had nothing to say that he could share with Alfred; if he opened up to him, if he told him how shitty he felt, how empty and alone and miserable he was, he knew what would happen. Alfred would look him in the eye and say "You're being too hard on yourself, sir; you really must find a way to forgive yourself. It wasn't your fault; there was nothing you could have done differently."

Those words--that kindness--would go through him like a knife. Because, Alfred would be making assumptions. He'd make assumptions about what was troubling his employer, and he would be wrong.

Dead wrong.

Bruce flipped on the police scanner and rested his head in one hand. Nothing. Nothing exciting tonight. An attempted robbery on the east side; a DUI on the west. The creep with the shoe fetish on the north. That was a good one, that one always made Bruce smile.

Some weirdo was working the uptown sidewalk cafe set, a guy who got his jollies by grabbing the shoe from an unsuspecting woman's dangling foot--he seemed to favor the designer brands, Prada or Manolos, no bargain basement knock-offs for him--then, he would take a deep, gratifying sniff, throw the footwear aside and take off with an expression of sheer bliss on his face before the poor victim had a chance to register what was happening.

Oh, did that ever piss off the society gals. To hear the 9-1-1 calls, you'd think they had been assaulted by a gang of bikers. But they had only gotten their gold lame¢ pumps or stiletto heels sniffed, the freak didn't even bother to steal them. A fairly benign kink, Bruce thought with some amusement, one not likely to escalate. But, those ladies surely did get pissed off.

Bruce wasn't one to judge.

He had his own kinks.

He ran through a few more channels on his scanner and decided it would be a quiet night, no need to don the Bat suit, no need to go out tonight. That was good, he could use a break.

* * *

Bruce headed up to his bedroom, wearily threw himself fully-clothed on his bed, slid his hands behind his neck and closed his eyes. He felt himself begin to let go, pushing away the weight that seemed to oppress his spirit, freeing his mind to wander for the first time in a very long time. That was a mistake, he soon realized. When he let his mind go, it went to some damned unhealthy places.

Bruce struggled to repress a certain indelible memory that sent tickle-y little firebombs of want straight into his crotch. He fought it for a bit, then finally relented, pulled his shirt up, unzipped his trousers and wriggled to push them and his underwear low enough to access his still-limp manhood. He began lightly stroking himself, just his thumb and forefinger slipping up and down his now mildly-interested, half-erect shaft, nudging himself into a comforting pre-excitement trance. Gentle stimulation, just a little "hello" to the old urges, a small "how's it going?" to the underused sex hormones that were constantly at the ready, but which, these days, were never called into action.

That was as far as he would go, as far as he would _allow_ himself to go. Sex and Bruce Wayne were not on speaking terms these days.

It hadn't always been that way. There was a time--a time not so long ago, if he sat and thought about it--when sex was a regular part of the playboy's life. It was easy--so many women, so happy to offer themselves up for his pleasure in exchange for very little other than the status of being in his company. At the end of a long, rough day Mr. Wayne could always work out his most dark and dire frustrations in the bed of a willing damsel, one whom he would fondly kiss goodbye when he left, never to be heard from again.

Or, if he couldn't bear the thought of putting up with some vapid girl's insipid company, he was perfectly happy to go straight home, jerk off until he came, roll over and fall asleep alone.

But even that simple release was no longer an option for him.

Not since _he_ came into his life.

Not since those scarred lips, warm and hungry, had forced themselves onto his own and that tongue, that ever-present wet, pink tongue, had insinuated its way into his disbelieving mouth. Not since cold, delicate hands had grasped the back of his neck, pulling him into an awkward embrace instead of a death grip, not since the heat of that limber body had warmed him, slender pin-striped-clad thighs pressing tightly against his waist in a wonton offering, and the smell of dirty hair, wet wool and sweat mixed with greasepaint and gasoline had filled his nostrils and made him giddy with desire.

He'd fought off the tricky little clown that night, and had been fighting _himself _ever since.

Bruce lay there, already angry with his lack of resolve but somehow, tonight, unable to stop. It felt so good, he needed it so badly...he grasped himself harder, began stroking faster, losing himself to his thoughts, his sickening, forbidden thoughts_...the Joker_...those eyes, warm brown surrounded by ugly black, that devilish grin ringed in crimson, those scars, those terrible, terrible scars...

Bruce Wayne had learned to endure unimaginable pain, had learned to deny himself, to control himself, had mastered a kind of self-discipline that most people would never even consider exploring, but when he let himself go, when he let down his guard..._he_ was quick to enter. The clown, the criminal, the murdering bastard that killed Rachel. _That_ was Bruce Wayne's ugly little secret, his kink, his shame. When he touched himself, he thought of _him_. And he didn't know why. And he didn't want to. But he did.

Again and again. And he was always in control, and he always told himself "no", always managed to take just a little and no more. But tonight...oh, baby. That fucking painted psychopath wouldn't leave him alone.

Bruce's hand was moving more quickly now, he used all five fingers, gripped more firmly, his member becoming more taut, straining into a full, magnificent erection, and still Bruce tried to stop, tried to think of baseball or work or how much it would cost to remodel the kitchen, anything but the Joker. Anything but those beautiful eyes and that wicked smile, _anything but the way that slender body had felt under him _when Batman restrained him, waiting for Gordon's men to come and pick up the Arkham-bound freak.

But he _failed, _and with an anguished cry of _"fuck!" _he felt release overtake him, and he came, hot semen spurting in waves over the thick dark hair on his finely chiseled abdomen. He lay there panting in disgust and relief and--furious--vowed that this, this giving in to weakness, would by _God_ never happen again.

Long moments passed. Night had fallen, and Bruce finally pulled himself into a standing position and stalked to the bathroom to clean up. He was angry and disappointed, but, what was it Alfred always said? He had to learn to forgive himself; he was only human. Only human, and all alone. He was hurting no one. No one and nothing, except Rachel's and Harvey's memories.

In fact, if anything, he was hurting _himself_ with his rigidity, this repression was just making him crazy, as crazy as _he_ was...maybe he should give in to it and relax. After all, a harmless little kink never hurt anyone.

After all, the Joker was safely locked away in Arkham. Batman wouldn't have to face that taunting, flirting, soulless nut-job again, wouldn't have to hear his voice _(Come ON, Bats, how about it? You and me, a little rumble in the concrete jungle, no boxing gloves allowed! Tell ya what, you can pin me to the mat aaall...you...want...) _or feel his warmth or see his smirk of knowing amusement, daringhim to defy his own resolve...as long as he was contained, Batman was off the hook, he wouldn't have to make those difficult choices ever again.

Even Bruce Wayne struggled with nothing more earth-shattering than whether or not to whack off while imagining it was the clown's scarred mouth wrapped around his dick instead of his own hand. So, actually...it was ok.

Really ok. The world didn't end just because he'd beaten off to his twisted imaginings! Who did it hurt if he entertained himself with musings of dragging down pin-striped trousers over skinny hips, forcing the lanky, squirming bastard onto his hands and knees and ramming himself into that hot, tight, perfect little ass, making the giggling jester scream--_oh, he thought he wanted it, but wait until Bats got a hold of him, he'd make him hurt but good, _oh God, he could just hear him, keening in a kind of high-pitched, desperate tone,_ Jesus, Bats, wait! I'm not ready, STOP, please, you're hurting me, STOP! _Yes, that one was a good one to fall asleep to...

Or, his other favorite daydream scenario, (he tended to alternate between the two depending on his mood), taking him slow and easy, sliding it in inch by tortuous inch, deeper and deeper, but slower and slower, making the damned clown _beg_ to be fucked_, _this done in a deeper, breathless rasp, _Oh_, _God, Bats, yes, fuck me, fuck me harder, HARDER, Bats, PLEASE, I need it so bad_, pleading until he was almost crying, and then he'd...

Either way, he could imagine it perfectly. It was all so vivid in his mind's eye, how he would make the green-haired devil writhe beneath him in pain and pleasure as he thrust in deep, again and again and again...

_And no, Wayne, you pathetic wretch, look around you! Nothing bad has happened, has it? _he thought. The earth hadn't stopped spinning, the universe hadn't turned on him in vengeance for wallowing in his appalling little jerk-off fantasies. In fact, he suddenly felt better, better than he had felt in a long time. Less tense, almost normal. So what if he was a little bit perverted? Big deal. It was between him and his own mind, his own conscience, and that was _all_ that it was, and all it ever would be.

_Period._

Bruce, smiling slightly in satisfaction at his rationalizations, walked over to his broad expanse of windows and gazed out into the Gotham night. It really was a beautiful city, especially like this, a clear night with just one fluffy bank of clouds, the lights from the tall buildings illuminating the dark backdrop like thousands of glittering diamonds just waiting to be plucked from their settings...suddenly, a sight Bruce had never expected to see again shone against the billowy screen.

The Bat signal.

_No_...it couldn't be. Jim had smashed it to bits. Officially, the Bat was still a wanted man with a ruined mythology, there was no way he would be publicly called upon by the police department these days. Now, all interactions were through Gordon, and only initiated by himself. Yet, there it was...it had to be a trick. There had been no worrisome goings-on crackling across the police scanner, so...what could it be? Whatever it was, Jim Gordon was the man Bats needed to confer with.

Disturbed, Bruce hastened down to the cave, put on his costume, got in the reconstituted Tumbler and headed for Jim's office building. He parked out of sight and made his way stealthily up to the commissioner's office floor, coming into the building through a side door. At this hour, the offices were deserted, but Jim's was unlocked and the man himself was inside, staring out into the skyline. Bats entered silently, closing the door with a purposeful "whoosh" to let Jim know he was there.

Commissioner Gordon knew the sound and turned, relief showing in his face.

"Thank God you've come."

"What's going on?"

"The Joker's escaped from Arkham."

Bats felt a chill run through him even as a floodgate of questions opened up in his mind. When? How? Why wasn't an all points bulletin blaring across the police scanner? Why wasn't a screaming battalion of police cruisers racing through the city? Why had Gordon been so desperate as to shine the Bat signal again? And, most disturbing of all from the Bat's point of view, where and how would he find the strength to deflect the Joker's demonic hold on him one more time--if and when he found him? It had been trying enough the last time...

Clearly, the universe _did _disapprove of his little kink after all.


	3. Jonathan Crane

**A/N: The prompt here was "Other Character's POV", so this is Dr. Crane's thoughts on his brief relationship with the Joker. Some sexual imagery, you have been warned. ;) **

**Please review, let me know what you think of this.**

**Seds**

*******

In a cell at the end of the east hall of the Dangerous Offenders Ward, Dr. Jonathan Crane luxuriated on his cot, comfortably arching his back and stretching his arms out wide, almost managing to push his lover to the floor. He'd just had a most satisfactory outcome to an extended round of oral sex, eagerly administered by one Robert Ferrell, a twenty-one year old intern, currently assigned to the Arkham Medical Research Facility. The doctor now wanted nothing more than to drift off into a nice, quiet, post-orgasmic sleep, but his cot-mate snuggled closer, partly to avoid the hard cement below him, but also seeking acknowledgement of his offering to his mentor.

"Was that all right, Dr. Crane? Did you like it?" he asked shyly, pushing a lock of limp brown hair away from his eyes.

"I would think that would be self-evident," Crane snapped as he pulled up his pants. "I will say, you do have certain useful talents, none of which are related to your field of study. Now, don't you have beakers to wash or test tubes to fill? I really would prefer to be alone with my thoughts, if you don't mind."

"Certainly, Doctor. I just thought...."

Crane opened one resentful blue eye and the young man abruptly stopped in mid-sentence. He hastily amended his sentiments.

"You're right, I'd better go. They're probably looking for me back in the lab." He hastily stood up and tapped at the door for a guard to let him out. He glanced back at his lover and said hopefully, "Goodbye, Dr. Crane."

The doctor airily waved a hand without opening his eyes.

"Goodbye, Bobby. Same time tomorrow. We'll go over dual diagnoses or my opinion of the new class of SSRIs or something else very beneficial to your career. You might want to bring knee-pads."

The young man blinked uncertainly, turned and began to open the door when Crane's eyes flew open.

"Oh! Bobby! I forgot to ask! How's our favorite research project going?" The doctor propped himself up on one elbow. Robert stepped back in the room and nodded thoughtfully.

"Oh, yes, I meant to tell you. He's been admitted to the infirmary with a diagnosis of pneumonia."

"Oh, really? When did that happen?"

"Um...yesterday, I believe."

"I see...well, that's unfortunate. They're not going to halt the project because of that, are they?"

"I don't think so." Ferrell bit his lip. "Dr. Crane, are you absolutely sure the additive is safe?"

"Of course it is. I used it extensively in my own trials when I was on staff here, and never had a problem. The Joker may simply be ill, there's not necessarily a connection..."

"Yes, I hope so. I can't help but feel... a bit underhanded, going about things in this way."

"Bobby, Bobby, think what this will mean. You and I are a team! I would never have had the chance to continue my research without you, and you wouldn't have had the opportunity to test the compound without me. But this way, when my theory is proven correct--you'll get all the credit! You'll be a hero. Just think, if a case like the Joker's can be cured, all will be forgiven... and you'll be rich!"

Robert smiled weakly. "Yes, of course. This has all been absolutely fascinating. I really appreciate your giving me so much insight into the process, and by the way, I--" The intern could see his mentor was no longer listening, so he simply departed without another word.

Crane smiled to himself. This was working out _wonderfully. _The fucking Joker was finally suffering the effects of his efforts, not that that was his ultimate goal, but still, a happy bonus. And it was all due to the Robert person.

The boy had, apparently, been a big fan of his work long before things came to a, well, unfortunate conclusion, and his own fall from sanity just made him all the more interesting to the fledging psychiatrist. He had specifically sought out an internship at Arkham in hopes of getting an opportunity to spend some time picking the disgraced doctor's brain. Jonathan had instantly gathered the scope of the opportunity and set about taking full advantage of the idealistic young man's eagerness for knowledge, his greed, and his formerly latent homosexual tendencies.

Robert had very correctly fallen in love with Crane and was too blinded by emotion to see just how useful he was being to the psychiatrist. And not just in bed, well, cot, oh, no. That was, to be honest, the least of his value, although... Crane giggled a bit... that was not to be dismissed lightly. The boy was relatively intelligent and well-groomed, a welcome change from the unwashed orderlies he had been reduced to seducing in order to satisfy his recently-awakened sexual appetites. Appetites, he was ashamed to admit, which had been brought to the foreground by one particular goddamn clown...

Jonathan's face clouded a bit at the thought of... _him. _God, how he hated him. Hated, detested, loathed... loved, oops, no, not that! Not anymore. Not since he was so unceremoniously dumped by the wretched maniac. Why did they have to send him to Arkham? Wasn't prison good enough for the damn greasy-haired bastard? He thought he was so smart, and such a _player. _Isn't that what they called the can't-keep-it-in-your-pants Lotharios these days?

Oh, he was embarrassed. To have been taken in by him so easily. So stupid, so foolish of him to fall for him like that. But... he'd been so _bored_, so god-damn bored. And the Joker had 'courted' him for almost two weeks.

Spots of red flushed the doctor's pale cheeks at the memory. The Joker. He'd been so--charming. So debonair, even with the manacles. And, the way he could manipulate those around him, it was unbelievable. He'd flirted shamelessly with him right away, and then, little presents had started to appear in Jonathan's cell. A fluffy pillow, an extra blanket, the latest issue of _Scientific American_--a rose. It had been uncomfortable, completely unwelcome, but, when the clown showed up in his cell after lights out and cuddled on the cot with him, his long, slender fingers traveling up and down his arms; then, seeking his warmth as they snaked under his shirt, gently pinching his nipples as that amazing tongue found its way into his mouth...

He couldn't believe he was letting him. Couldn't believe he was being hypnotized by that nasal voice, "Come on, Jonny, don't be scaaared. Now, doesn't that feel nice? Come on. Take your pants off, that's a good little doc." He'd _let_ him. He couldn't paint it to be rape, no matter how he twisted and turned the events of that night. The Joker had him well in hand, literally, and it did feel good, so good, and when the clown's finger, mysteriously slicked up by something he'd smuggled in with him, probed at his entrance, he'd tensed up, gasping in horror at the realization of what was about to happen. But... he'd taken the Joker's advice and relaxed. "Lemme in, Jonny, I'll go real easy on you, seeing as it's your first time... Don't be scared. Don't be scared..."

He'd allowed himself to be soothed at first, and then, deeply and rapidly penetrated. To be fiercely rutted on, like an animal, the gasping breaths, the grunts and groans, and the laughing, the goddamn _giggles_ of his friendly assailant filling his ears as the man filled his body... It had hurt, but not the way he'd feared, the Joker had done a good job preparing him, he had to give him that. And, as it went on, as he had the weird sensation of being outside his body, watching his own humiliation, he had suddenly found himself bucking under him, wanting it, more, deeper... _Joker, please?... _He'd _let _him fuck him, he couldn't deny it. And--he'd _liked_ it.

Shame, humiliation, embarrassment--all had flooded him the next day when he woke alone to ruined sheets, his bottom sore and sticky, his nipples and neck sporting reddened bite and suction marks, the memory of the Joker's mouth on him, sucking him deeply... and how he'd loved it. That was the worst. It was as though the fiend could read him like a kindergarten primer, knew exactly whathe wanted and how he wanted it. And had _given_ it to him, playing him like a cheap violin.

And, he couldn't get enough. The two of them had snuck off together more times than he could count, taking turns kneeling in front of each other. Or, Jonathan, turning into a useless piece of jello at the sound of him turning the latch on his cell, reduced to begging, "Joker... can we kiss? First?"

And then it was over. The clown was done with him. No more midnight visits, no more winks and nods in the day room or over the tin trays in the cafeteria. When he'd tracked him down in the library and confronted him, his heart near breaking, pleading for an explanation, the bastard had laughed. "What's a matter, Jonny, do you _like_ me now or something? Come on, grow up, why d'ya have to take everything so _seriously, _huh? We were just having fun, right? Something to pass the time. Get our minds off the real world. Don't make a fool of yourself, Jonny. I'm done. Got other fish to fry, bats to boil, you know? Be a good little psycho and run along now, ok? I hear Eddie's looking for a boyfriend, why don't you give him a tumble?" And on and on... The bastard was positively gleeful at his distress. Positively_ gleeful._

Oh, he'd recovered, in time. He'd found other outlets for his energies--orderlies, masturbation... plans for revenge. Plans for escape. Funny how being a genius came in handy, he'd figured out a way to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, thanks to the God-send named Robert Farrell.

The strapping youth had access and opportunities no longer available to the doctor, and that was worth a lot. A _whole_ lot. Somuch so that he might even reward him with a kind word tomorrow. Wasn't that a good idea? Yes, that would be all right. Wouldn't want to lead him on, don't want to be a bastard like the Joker, full of empty words and promises, but still... the lad deserved a bit of positive regard, right? Right. Then it was settled.

The doctor would bestow upon the obliging intern a sincere compliment, something not related to his sexual prowess, which he didtend to dote on a bit too much. Perhaps he would tell him that he..._thought a lot of him_. Yes, good, that would do nicely. Not too flowery, but definitely an ego-boost for the star-struck young sycophant. "Bobby," he would say, "I want you to know, I do think a lot of you." There. Perfect. The love-sick boy would swoon, and be good for another few weeks of unquestioningly taking orders and providing the doctor with more than adequate sexual release.

Pleased that his two selves were in agreement, Dr. Crane was soon blissfully asleep.


	4. The Joker Speaks

**A/N: This is from the Joker's POV as he chats with his hostage.**

*********

Hey pal--how you doing there? Comfy? How're those bindings? I left a little wiggle room so the blood wouldn't be completely cut off, I know how that can burn... So, doing ok? You look a little nervous... Listen, relax, you'll be ok. You're no use to me dead, well, not right now anyway, heh heh. Aw, just kidding, honest, you'll be fine--I think. We're going to be here a while, so we might as well chat, yeah? Hey, I know, I'll tell ya about my day. You know, before we, uh, ran into each other, so to speak, ha ha.

Let's see, morning seems like a long time ago... I woke up in this cozy little out-of-the-way warehouse by the river, and the first thing I think is, "Where the hell is the coffee?"It was fucking _cold _in there, and I was desperate for some hot java to warm up my insides and, hopefully, wake up my brain. I felt like I was still in the ha-ha house as far as my synapses were concerned, and barring a nice dose of methamphetamine falling out of the sky, caffeine's my drug of choice for getting the cobwebs outta the ol' cranium.

Now, I'm still clad in my Arkham-issue poly-cotton finery--so easy to get the stains out, you know...hey, Arkham life lends itself to a lot of stains, believe me, and they're not all the fun kind either--and not only am I hacking up a lung, chilled to the bone, but, sartorially speaking, I looked like more of a freak than usual. I thought to myself, "Well, this is no good."

Clothes make the man, as they say, and I have to agree.

I felt like _shit_, mind you. But, I couldn't very well hunt down a cup of joe looking like that, so, I gave the place the once-over and, whaddaya know, I managed to find a nice, big, rusty wrench left over from the good old days, you know, back when Gotham had something to offer the rest of the industrialized world besides drugs and cheap money laundering schemes.

Oh, listen, I prefer knives, as you well know, but a blunt object will do in a pinch. By the way, how's the bleeding? Stopped? That's good. Really, I wouldn't worry, I totally missed any vital organs, you'll be fine... Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, so I headed over to the window and perched on the sill, waiting for some chump to straggle by.--they always do, don't they, heh heh, oh, hey, didn't mean to imply that _you_ were a chump, you were just minding your own business, weren't you? Well, I have to say, sometimes it doesn't pay to get out of bed in the morning...

Anyway, sure enough, a suitable specimen came meandering along, looked to be vintage 1957 or so, not too quick on the uptake--my kind of schmuck, you know? So, I made with the wolf whistle and when he came in to see what I was hawking, I bashed him right on the noggin, but _good._ Oh, don't worry, I didn't kill him--like I said, I was under the weather--but I got the job done just fine.

I relieved the unlucky fellow of his garb--not too bad for free! Stank to high heaven, but what're you going to do before that first cup, wait for a GQ model to wander by? He was about my size with the basic requirements--shirt, jacket, pants--only a few holes in 'em, although I have to say, I didn't like the looks of those stains--and, extra special bonus, a neck scarf. So handy for covering up the ol' scar tissue, you know? Bless him, he didn't have a dime on him, not that I thought he would.

Thusly outfitted, I went out to dig up some scratch.

_Luckily_, there was an fine example of working class America standing at the bus stop.

"Hey, Mac, help a fellow out? Got a dollar on ya for a cuppa coffee?" I ask. Now, it would have been fucking hilarious if he'd of actually given me a dollar. I don't know what I would of done if he had, probably laughed so hard I'd of split my aching spleen, but, of course, he did no such thing. Nah, he did that little half-shake of the head thing, the one where he's sizing me up but trying not to make eye contact, and goes back to pretending to read his paper.

Well, I stumbled "by accident," although, to be brutally honest, I wasn't feeling so hot, and nearly did kind of lose it there for a minute, but I shook it off and did the ol' double-whammy switcheroo, meaning I got him so freaked out about the smelly bum falling on him that he forgot to guard his precious wallet and before he knew what hit him, I had it in hand and was presumably long gone before he snapped to the situation. It was pretty funny watching him wake up and take off in my supposed direction. By the time he gave up and came back, panting and sweating all over the place, I was comfortably seated on his departing bus, fondly waving him bye-bye with his own newspaper. Oh, boy, if looks could kill!

Yeah, I made off with a whole seven dollars and thirteen cents, and a coupon for an oil change down at the Jiffy Lube. Not exactly a great haul, but plenty of dough for coffee, bus fare, and a few phone calls, plus my non-existent car could look forward to some pampering...

I got off at a stop on Main, downtown--listen, I almost conked out on the bus I was feelin' so bad. But I knew I just needed a nice jolt of caffeine to wake me right up, hell, I shoulda left in the IV and applied the shit directly to my bloodstream, but as it was, I had to settle for the old-fashioned way, and I walked down to the park and found myself a nice little bench to dose up on.

I don't know how long I sat there. Even with the java doing it's thing, I still didn't feel up to snuff. In fact, if you want to know the truth, I kind of had an out of body experience. Like I was asleep, but not really. I felt like I was floating... It reminded me of when Batsy abandoned me, leaving me to dangle on the side of that building like a goddamn pinata. It was pretty fun at the time, but the more I think about it, the more ticked off I get. Bastard left me there for the SWAT team to collect, like a stray cat he was sick of feeding! Didn't even kiss me goodbye, ha ha...

And, that SWAT team--they act like their jobs are so hard. _I _was the one who was upside down for twenty minutes, all the blood had rushed into my head! I was fucking _woozy _by the time they finally hauled me back inside to solid ground. And they had four guys, count 'em, FOUR, involved in the delicate process of slapping a pair of cuffs on me. I don't know why they were so worried, I was actually having a great time! Couldn't they tell by the laughter? The fact that that one guy tripped and went over the edge was entirely accidental, I was just a little disoriented when I grabbed his arm...

Oh, and let me tell you about the ride to Arkham. I _love_ riding in the back seat, makes me feel like a goddamn kid again, but everyone was so nervous! Why can't people learn to relax and enjoy the little things in life? You wanna know what I think? I think they were _worried. _I guess I can't blame 'em, I _do_ have a reputation as a bit of a prankster, and I _did_ manage to pull a little blade out of my sleeve and slice up the arm of the officer next to me, wrist to elbow, and, ok, yeah, there _was _a little more blood than I expected, but it was all in fun! I guess the city's really as cheap as I've heard because the coppers were falling all over themselves to staunch the flow, I suppose getting those vinyl seats cleaned _is_ a little pricey.

Buuut, they really overreacted if you ask me. I mean, I like a nice jolt of electricity as much as the next person, but that taser was set on "brain melt", not stun, you can't convince me otherwise. It did make the trip go that much faster, I'll say that for it. But I don't think bashing my head into that cop's crotch was entirely my fault, you can't help but flail about a little with 80,000 volts going through you. And, yeah, I admit it, I was freakin' _steamed_ when I came to....

Now that I think of it, I really should send that lieutenant's widow a sympathy card, I bet she misses him. But, I don't feel that bad about it, I think Gordon's finally going to take a serious look at an equipment maintenance program, so you know, it's not like some good didn't come of it. And when that other guy's face finally heals, he'll be as good as new. Scars lend character, just look at me! But anyway, yeah, so we finally get to the asylum, and boy, do they know how to welcome a person.

There must have been fifty people all lined up outside, cameras flashing, big guys with hypodermics poised and ready, I think I spotted three snipers up on the roof...it was genuinely touching, it really was. I mean, they even warmed up the straight jacket for me, just like at a spa or something! And that first dose of Thorazine...ahhh, there's nothing like it to take the edge off, is there?

Once the cops washed their hands of me, things went really well. Everyone on the hospital staff was so nice. Looking back, I almost wish I hadn't been such a handful about the padded cell, I mean, it's not _their_ fault that the budget doesn't allow for a little touch of interior design. I just think gray is such a drab color, and I guess I made a pill of myself about it, but sometimes it just takes one person to point out these little flaws and if the right person hears about it, voila! Things change... Oh, and they told me later that that orderly _would _be able to walk again, so maybe I wasn't as confrontational as I thought I was, which is good. I've really taken the "win-win" concept to heart, I just have to work on my presentation skills a little bit.

Sooo... Well, back to today, yeah, I finally pulled myself together, hit the pay phone, got one of my guys to bring me a car, along with my clothes, make up and knives, and here we are!

So, enough about me, tell me about yourself, uh, what is it, Marvin? That's what it says on your driver's license, is that what you go by? Huh, can't understand you... Oh, the gag, sorry... Well, let's just leave that in, tell ya what, I'll _guess! _Ok, three piece gray flannel suit, I'm thinking banker? Yeah? Nice shoes, must be pretty high up there, manager, right? Uh-huh. Ok, let's see, three kids, judging by the picture? Good lookin' wife, she's number two in a series I'll bet... Wow, I imagine they're all wondering where you are by now. Well, don't worry, I made sure everyone knew who it was that was taking you for a little ride, and if my grasp of technology is correct, your cell phone's GPS will lead the Bat right to us in no time.

Listen--let me ask you something while I have you here--what do _you _think about him and me? I mean, nothing's really happened yet, but I just have a feeling that I'm not the only one crushing a little bit, eh? You know, he came to Arkham to see me a bunch of times, "Just checking on the integrity of the security system," yeah, right, I saw him checking out my ass. You wanna know my opinion? He should of nailed me in that interrogation room when he had the chance. He coulda pulled down my pants and fucked me silly right then and there, showed Gordon what a case of _real _vigilante justice looks like, heh heh...

You know, my being sick might turn out to be an advantage. Maybe I'll get some sympathy points from him. "Oh, Batsy, I just feel so bad, couldja bring me some comic books and chicken soup?" Ha ha ha. Aw, jeeze, this cough's killing me...feel like I'm gonna fucking pass out... Hey! Hey, Bozo! Listen, if I conk out, don't forget the detonator's in my jacket pocket! Yeah, don't wanna forget that, we might need it before everything's said...and done...


	5. Where's the Bomb?

**A/N: Hello! This is in three parts from these points of view, Bruce, the Narrator, then Bruce again.**

**I would so very much appreciate reviews.**

**Thank you!!**

**Seds**

**Part I **

I can remember when things were simple.

Not easy, no.

Never easy...

But simple_. _Black or white, right or wrong, good or bad. I knew my purpose and there were no questions plaguing me then, no nuances, no ambiguities.

My father once said "It's not what happens to you, it's what you do about it." How right he was.

There was a time when it was all very clear to me--I loved Rachel. I hated the man who killed my parents. Everyone else fell into a slot somewhere in between the two extremes. Sorting them into their places wasn't difficult.

Then, the _Joker_ happened to me.

Now, questions, always questions.

_Is the Joker evil?_

Once, I would have had no trouble answering that query. But now I say, is the snake evil when it wraps itself around a small child's body and squeezes the life out of it? Is a hungry tiger evil when it snatches a villager away from the river? Is the grizzly bear evil when it tears apart the hiker who startled it from sleep?

Can the Joker help being what he is?

I don't know. But, now, I ask myself again and again--am _I_ evil?

The Joker, locked up in Arkham. There was a time when I would have taken some solace from the justice of that. When I would have turned my thoughts to my grief, to my healing, to moving forward in my purpose, to finding the next threat, the next piece of garbage that was spreading the sickness which was destroying Gotham City.

The Joker killed Rachel. I should hate the Joker.

But, I don't, not anymore. Not in that way. Not like an enemy.

Now, I think of him--and what it would be like to take his painted face in my hands, to crush my lips against his scarred ones and discover the secrets of his mouth, to taste that pink, writhing tongue. I think of what his body would feel like against mine, squirming and bucking under me. What it would feel like to be inside him, to hear that infuriating laughter stilled for just a moment and to hear groans and gasps of pain and pleasure instead.

_Am I evil?_

Once, I wanted justice. I took a gun to a court room, intent on putting a bullet into the man that murdered my mother and father. Then, Rachel taught me that becoming like him was no justice at all. I learned that to make a better world, I needed to seek the root of the evil and destroy it--without sinking to its level.

Without killing.

Was I, then, a "good" man?

Has this wretched _need_ been inside me all along? Was it lying dormant, asleep in some slowly rotting corner of my soul, waiting for his paint-daubed fingers to pluck it out by the neck and gleefully shake it into consciousness?

Or was it created all in a day by a murderous, green-haired little clown?

If I had met him years ago, would I have taken the same paths I've traveled and done the same things I've done? Or would I, too, have fallen, learned to revel in death, destruction and chaos?

Questions, always questions, never any real answers.

When Gordon told me the Joker had escaped, I knew exactly what to say, how to act. But it _was _an act. Inside, I felt a leap of excitement, a powerful buzz of anticipation at the possibility of having a chance, just a brief chance, to get him alone, to take him. Then Gordon told me what else had happened and I did feel terror--but not just for Gotham. It was at the thought of losing him--forever.

Am I..._evil? _

Or am I, like him, a freak of nature, destined to follow my instincts, to live forever at the mercy of my lust and my hunger?

There was a time when such questions would have been brushed aside, left to the care of theologians and philosophers, _I _had no time for them, I had criminals to apprehend. Now, my heart breaks at the thought of him dying, when that would only be a blessing to the people of Gotham.

I have to find him. I have to save him.

I have to save Gotham.

**Part II**

The Joker had wedged himself into a corner of the room in the abandoned office building he had chosen as his new, highly temporary, headquarters. The nausea had passed and he was feeling slightly better, although the wracking cough nearly made him black out more than once. He glanced again at the small TV screen; Marvin's face was again featured in a news bulletin. The annoying thing was, his own was not. And he'd made quite sure to be caught on the bank's exterior security cam when he made off with his hostage. Strange...

But, being sick made everything seem off-kilter. It was, in fact, something of a new experience for him. He had vague recollections of a couple of times as a kid--foggy memories of staying home from school, a cool hand on his forehead, a gentle woman's voice saying, "Shhh, baby, you'll be all right, look, I made you some grape Jell-o, your favorite..." But remembering the effect on his body of whatever childhood ailment he had been afflicted with was lost to him now.

This..._condition _he was currently in would have been fascinating if he didn't feel so damn crappy. He would have taken delight in observing the bubbling action of the phlegm in his lungs as he struggled to take a deep breath, and would have been impressed by how weak his muscles had become in the last few hours, rendering him incapable of going head-to-head with his Bat, whenever the vigilante decided to grace him with his presence. Assuming the big guy made it before he fucking passed out or died, now that would be a lovely bit of irony.

Damn Bat! Always a day late and a dollar short, for his purposes anyway...

He kept Marvin Edelman's cell phone clutched in his fevered hand, checking the caller id every time it rang, noting with amusement that he was able to correctly identify his wife's name--Ava--by matching the wallet photo to the picture icon that Marv had assigned to her number. She sure must be worried about him, he thought, she called a bunch of times before they figured out the identity of the Joker's hostage.

He entertained himself by playing her increasingly desperate voice mail messages for the bound and gagged man--"Marvy? You haven't returned my calls, where the heck are you, honey?" Then, ten minutes later, "Marvin? For heaven's sake I know you're busy, but come on, I _know_ you have your phone on....call me!" "_Marvin! _Where the fuck are you, call me!"--taking some pleasure in the miserable expression that was discernable above the gag.

"Aw, don't let it get ya down, 'Marvy.' Think how happy she'll be to see you! You'll get pussy like you wouldn't _believe_ for days, trust me, I'm doing you a favor..."

Finally, the phone rang again and the Joker picked it up with an annoyed sneer. His expression quickly changed to a quizzical look. This was an "unknown caller." Hmmm...

"Hel-l_ooooo?"_ the clown answered, forcing a little more good cheer into the word than he actually felt.

"Joker." That raspy growl.

"Batsy! At last. I was beginning to think no one cared about poor old Marvin, besides his vast legion of family and friends. How you doing, pal?"

"I know where you are."

"I would hope so."

"I'm coming to get you."

"Good, I'll put on a pot of coffee..."

"Don't bother, I won't be staying. The hostage's condition?"

"Oh, just dandy. His button-down shirt might need a little extra stain-care, but he's fine. Hey, Marv, wanna say something to the Bat? What's that? I can't hear you... Sorry, Bats, Marvin's a little tied up just now, heh heh."

The phone disconnected and the Joker stared at it in irritation. Goddamn that Bat, can't even engage in a civil conversation for two lousy seconds. Oh, well, at least he was finally on his way...

The clown nestled closer to the wall, wrapping his arms around himself as a chill blasted through his entire body, making him shiver. Fuck it. It was a good thing he had the detonator, he certainly wasn't in any shape to go a few rounds with the Bat.

Not with his clothes on anyway, heh, heh... Aw, fuck, he couldn't let a good double entendre go by, even though his usually overly-active libido was definitely in stand-by mode at the moment.

He wondered what his Bat was going to do.

**Part III**

I had triangulated the Joker's location and made my way up the flights of stairs, continuously on the lookout for any traps or tricks the escaped lunatic might have put in place for me. The GPS homing unit I had in my hand told me when I had reached the right floor, and I slowed my pace as I listened for signs of life.

The tinny chatter of a television led me to the office where the clown was holed up. I made quick work of dispatching two of his henchmen that attempted to block my way. I strode in quickly, prepared for anything. All I saw was a gagged, bloodied man bound to a battered desk chair, a terrified expression on his face.

I knew the Joker's ways, and it occurred to me that this had all been too easy--perhaps the poor hostage had twenty sticks of dynamite strapped to his back, or maybe the Joker was ensconced within the acoustic-tiled ceiling, ready to drop a net on top of me, or... My musings were cut short by a terrible, hacking cough coming from the outermost corner of the room.

I gave the hostage a sign of acknowledgment and carefully advanced past him.

There, slumped in the corner with a knife clutched in a gloved hand, was as startling an apparition as I had ever seen. The Joker, thinner than I recalled, was huddled like a refugee, his head barely staying upright as he attempted to leer at me in his usual fashion, much of the white face paint smeared with red or black, or rubbed bare in places. He gamely struggled to his feet and took a look out the window. He snapped back at me in surprise.

"Awful quiet out there, where's your little SWAT team buddies?"

"They're on the way," I lied.

"Say, Bats, listen--you wouldn't happen to have a couple of aspirin on you, would you? I'm fighting a bit of a headache, and I'd really like to be in best form when you beat the shit out of me..."

"Where you're going, they've got all kinds of nice drugs."

I couldn't tell with the face paint obscuring his features, but I suspected he was pale and his eyes sunken. As it was, those eyes had a fevered look, and lacked their usual cat-like alertness.

He made a wheezing laugh.

"So, Bats, shame I'm not up to our usual antics, buddy... Sorry I dragged you out here for nothing. I mean, you can still beat me up if you want, but--it's kind of like shooting fish in a barrel at this point, can't offer you much in the way of fair sport. Well, other than this..."

The demented clown shakily held up what appeared to be one of his home-made remote detonators and then secreted it back into one of the many pockets of his overcoat.

"What did you _do_?" I hissed.

"Oh, just a little back-up plan. Insurance. You know, just in case..."

"Where's the bomb?"

The Joker perked up and shifted his weight as if to move toward me. I was genuinely afraid he was going to keel over, but he seemed to find some strength and steadied himself with a hand on the wall. He shook his head like a dog, as if to clear it. He licked his lips in preparation of offering what I knew would be some sort of puzzle to solve if I wanted to prevent another incident of destruction in the city.

"Now, Bats, you know I'm not going to just come right out and share that with you! You'll have to play my little game first..."

"What game?"

"I call it 'Get to Know Me!' You know, like the guy on that comedy show? Sounds like fun, doesn't it?"

Once, I would have bashed his green-haired head against the wall, thrown him across the room, delivered blow after blow to his grinning face in an effort to beat the truth out of him. But I had long ago lost my taste for violence toward the man who stood before me, and now, so unsteady on his feet, so frail, I could see I would be committing murder if I _did _brutalize him...

And anyway, under these circumstances, I could _not _shed his blood even if I wanted to. I had to somehow return him to Arkham, where a counter-agent had been produced that would nullify the effects of the latent toxins swimming in his bloodstream. Without causing him to throw himself out the window to his death, or to thrash around in such a way that he would end up with a nose bleed or split lip or some other normally benign injury, and also without him taking out a knife and deciding to very theatrically slice himself open in protest, and of course, without letting him set off the detonator.

And, I couldn't let him know the truth about his "illness."

So, I sighed, and resolved to play his game.

"Tell me the rules."

"Well, I ask you a question about myself, and you tell me the answer. If you've paid any attention at all, it should be easy!"

"And what do I get if I'm right?"

"One of the questions is a clue. If you answer correctly, you'll figure out where the bomb is hidden."

"And if I'm wrong?"

"Um, that would be...bad. From your point of view, anyway. But, just 'cause I'm a nice guy, I'll give you three chances on each question."

"All right. Let's play."

He smiled in pleased surprise. He cast his eyes upward as if in deep thought.

"What's my favorite color?"

I cast about in my mind and guessed, "Black."

He scrunched his face into a scowl and scoffed, "What am I, some emo goth kid? Nooo. Try again."

I glanced at his ridiculous outfit and said, "Purple?"

"Good! Now, why do I prefer knives to guns?"

I knew this one by heart. "Guns are too _quick..."_

He dissolved into delighted laughter, which led to another coughing fit that sent him to prop himself up against the wall.

"Oh, Batsy...you're doing so well... All right, here we go, last question. What's my favorite...hobby?"

"Blowing things up."

"No, no, no, that's my favorite way to get news bulletins to interrupt major televised sporting events. Good guess, though. Try again. "

I rolled my eyes in impatience. I had no idea as to what the answer could be, but I looked at his sly expression and thought, _he doesn't want the game to end so quickly._

"Give me a clue."

The Joker made a delighted face and chuckled a bit.

"Well! Now you're talking...but you have to give me something in return."

"Like what?"

"Tell me something about _you. _Something interesting. Something I don't know."

I hated this game, and at that moment, Ihated him. No matter what my personal feelings toward him might have degenerated into, the fact remained that he was a crazy, cruel freak with no concern for the possibly hundreds of people whose lives were currently in danger due to his actions. I took a deep breath, determined to maintain my calmest, most rational demeanor.

"I have no idea what you do or don't know about me," I stated.

"Oh, sure you do. Think, Bats--what have you ever revealed about yourself? You had the hots for Harvey's girlfriend. You have a lot of fancy gadgets, expensive stuff, so you must have money, or access to someone who does. You're pretty smart. You have some sort of misplaced sense of ethics that's going to get ya killed someday..."

"Sounds like you know plenty."

"Oh, come on, I don't even know your name!"

"Nor I yours."

"Umm. Well, let's leave that alone for now, shall we? I know... Tell me your worst fear."

I almost laughed.

"Don't be stupid. That should be obvious, I've lived through it, again and again, once at your hands. _That's what's made me what I am."_

"Ok, ok, fair enough. Here's your clue. In certain parts of the world, even here in the good ol' USA, my favorite hobby is one of the most dangerous, subversive things one can do, yet anyone can do it if they so choose."

I stared at him, uncertain.

"Gay sex?"

He gave me a pained look.

"That's not a _hobby, _Bats, sheesh."

"Infiltrating the government?"

"No, no, look, this isn't twenty questions, but I'll give you another hint. My favorite hobby allows me to go any place I want to, any time...for free."

"Bribing city officials?"

He sighed.

"You really are pathetic, you know that? Look, I take pity on ya, here's one more clue, but that's _it. _My favorite hobby requires a highly specialized skill that many people have--even some small children--but which others go their whole lives without attaining even though it could be learned in a short time, requiring almost no equipment and virtually no physical exertion whatsoever."

"Intimidation tactics, using a knife, using a gun--"

"Oh, good Lord, you are dense..."

"I can't fucking imagine what it is, Joker, just tell me where the bomb is!" I finally yelled, losing all patience.

He gave a sneer of disgust.

"You really don't know me at all, do you, Batman? I--"

Suddenly, the clown faltered and paused as if he were struggling to form his next word. I realized he was about to fall forward, and I hastened to him, but he recovered and pulled the detonator out of his coat.

"Well, thanks for playing... I had much more ambitious plans for our visit, but I'm really not feeling up to any more shenanigans, so--I'll just be on my way, now. There's your consolation prize for playing, I call him Marv. By now, he's probably about ready for a nice refreshing blood transfusion... I'll see ya around, huh, Bats?" And he stepped toward the open window, preparing to make his escape, detonator in hand.

"Wait!" I called. I hastily stepped behind the hostage and cut through the bindings holding him to the chair. The man gratefully stood up on shaky legs, and I held up my hand in a "hold it!" gesture towards the Joker. He accommodatingly waited until I made a quick radio call to Jim Gordon, who was sitting in an unmarked police car outside the building, awaiting my instructions. I knew he would take care of the wounded man without disrupting my efforts with the clown. As I clicked off the transmitter, I strode back to stand as close to the Joker as possible so I could look him in the eye. He flinched slightly and gestured threateningly with the device in his hand. I spoke as calmly and gently as I possibly could.

"Listen to me, Joker--I know you're not well. You just admitted it. I came to take you back to Arkham, they'll help you there, they'll give you medication to help you recover."

His face contorted into an amused grimace and he chuckled.

"Oh, no, Bats, the one thing Arkham doesn'tdo for it's, uh, 'patients', is helpthem. Besides, it's so...boring in there. No, I'm just going to disappear for a while, but don't worry, I'll turn up again soon enough, you know I can't live without you for too long." He winked, and again started to climb out the window, and I had to think fast.

"Joker, tell me your name," I said firmly.

"Huh?" He looked back over his shoulder at me, puzzled.

"It can't just be Joker, what's your real name?"

"What do you care?"

"You wanted to know something about me. All right, here it is. I...think about you sometimes," I said. "I'm tired of trying to imagine what your real name could be. Please, tell me what it is." I took a couple of steps toward him and he held the detonator up in a manner that suggested I should be mindful not to come too close.

"It's...Jack," he said in an uncertain tone, staring at me suspiciously.

"Well, Jack, that suits you. You really don't look like you're feeling very well, what's the matter?"

"Nothing. Just a little bug, I imagine. Back off, Bats, you don't want me to use this thing, do you?"

"No, of course not. But I'm really concerned about you. You once said I complete you. Well, I know now, you complete _me_, too. What would I do without you? You're sick, you need medical care... Let me help you. Let me take you to the hospital--

"You're crazier than I am. What is this shit, anyway? You think I'm stupid?" He now turned away from the window and was staring at me, genuinely perplexed.

"No, I don't. But the tests they ran before you escaped...they showed that you really are very ill. You're going to get sicker and sicker, and without medicine, you could even die. I don't want that. Do you?"

The Joker was looking more and more unsure, wondering whether or not to believe me. He swayed slightly and caught himself by holding on to the window frame. The words were clearly what he wanted to hear, but he just as clearly didn't trust me.

"You don't care about me--

"You're wrong."

"You hate me.

"I did, once. Not any more." I edged closer to him. He dropped his eyes to the ground, still holding the detonator in the air, but his hand was shaking from the effort.

"What do you want from me?" he whispered.

"Same thing you want from me."

His head snapped up and he looked at me with narrowed eyes.

"And what do you think that is?" he asked bitterly, training a sharp gaze on my every move.

I took a couple more steps toward him.

"If you give me the detonator, I'll show you."

"No..."

"Please, Jack. Give it to me. Let me show you what I think you want from me. You can tell me if I'm right. If I am, we both win, because then I can take care of you. I won't let you die, and I won't leave you all alone."

"And if you're wrong?"

"Game over. I'll let you go. But I won't be around for you, ever again."

He didn't say anything and I approached, closing the gap between us.

I reached out and carefully put my gloved hand on his, the one with the detonator in it. He was staring at me with simmering intensity. I gently pried the device from his fingers and slipped it into a pouch on my utility belt. With his last bit of advantage gone, he looked defeated and tipped his head back slightly, looking at me in anticipation.

"Ok, Bats... So, what is it you think I want, hmm? You gonna punch my lights out now? Beat me to a bloody pulp? Drag me down to a squad car and send me off to be locked up so tight, I'll never get away again? Is that what you believe I want from you?"

I looked at the Joker--that slight body, those intense eyes, wicked lips, and his beautiful, scarred features that had captivated me for so long. He was normally such a powerful, vibrant creature, and to see him reduced to a wavering, wraith-like figure touched off some new-found emotion deep inside me. But it didn't matter what I felt. I knew what I had to do.

I slipped my arms around his skinny frame and pulled him gently to me. He smelled of unwashed hair, and of sweat and blood and gasoline. I looked down into his fevered brown eyes and smiled slightly. I pressed my lips to his, and gave him a deep kiss. He moaned and struggled, bewildered at first, then he slowly settled against me and attempted to return the embrace andthe kiss as well as he could in his weakened state.

"So," I murmured into his ear, "was I right?"

He pulled away just enough to look into my eyes and nodded. He then returned to my arms, and I could feel him shiver against me, whether from a chill or from emotion, I didn't know.

"Come with me, Jack. Let me take care of you."

He was still for a long moment, then pulled back again and looked at me with shining eyes. He gave me a weak grin.

"Sure Bats. Obviously, I'm hallucinating... Or maybe I'm dead. So, what the hell, take me wherever you wanna go."

I sighed in relief, put my arm over his shoulders and started to guide him toward the door, but after a few steps, he faltered and would have fallen if I hadn't been there to support him.

Without thinking, I scooped him up into my arms, and prepared to carry him down to Jim's waiting car.

"Bats..." he said softly, wrapping his arms around my neck. I stopped long enough to kiss him again and then headed toward the stairs. He relaxed against me and for a moment I just stood there, holding him, listening to his labored breathing before starting our descent.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and sat down, cradling him to me. He was so weak, he just nuzzled his face into my shoulder and sighed tiredly.

I found his chin and tilted his head up to look at me. "Jack... What's your favorite hobby?" I asked gently. He gave a soft chuckle.

"You're a lousy guesser. It's _reading_, Bats. I love...a good book," he said in quiet resignation.

Suddenly, I understood.

I took out my radio transmitter and called Jim.

"Jim--there's a bomb in the Gotham Public Library."

"Top floor, rare books wing..." Jack offered into the radio, his voice strained. A small note of pride was evident in spite of the weakness.

I shook my head in a combination of exasperation and admiration for the man's craftiness, and said into the radio, "Got that, Jim? Ok, we're coming out."

I carried the frail little clown to the police cruiser and Jim opened the back door for me. I carefully belted the Joker into his seat and Jim quickly clapped a pair of cuffs on his thin wrists.

Gordon headed for the driver's seat and I got in the back, next to the barely-awake prisoner.

"He give you any trouble?" Jim asked.

"A little. Nothing I couldn't handle."

"How in hell did you do it, Batman? How'd you get the goddamn _Joker_ to surrender to you without bloodshed?"

"We played a game... He likes games," I added, mostly to myself, watching the Joker's eyes shut as he slipped into unconsciousness.

We drove to Arkham in silence.


	6. Flying

**A/N: Here we are at the last chapter. Hope you like it--please leave a review! Thank you for reading!**

**Seds**

******

What'll it be, Doc? What boring little recital piece shall I perform for you today? How I got these scars? My appalling childhood? Why I think I'm such a head case? Why killing gets me off?

Ah, that one. Heh-heh, struck a nerve, did I? Sex and death, such a winning combination for you shrinks... Listen, they tell me you're pretty good--that would be nice for a change--Arkham doesn't exactly attract top-of-the-line couch doctors, know what I mean?

Hey--would it surpriseyou to know...that murder is an acquired taste?

Well, it was for me. I didn't take to it, not at first. It took a while to appreciate the power. And to get over the--squeamishness. The first time you blast the brain out of someone's head, someone who, a second ago, was looking at you, talking, pleading, sweating... Well, it's a little disconcerting.

A little..._sickening._

You get over it.

By the time I was fifteen, I had it down pat.

Is that what you wanted to talk about? No?

Childhood it is, then.

**********

Batman sat at the Joker's bedside. He held a newspaper in his hands, but he couldn't concentrate on what he was reading. Every so often he looked at the Joker's face--odd, he thought. People look so different when they're unconscious. Different even than when they're asleep. Unconscious, the muscles are utterly slack, the skin seems almost translucent, the eyes are still and sunken. Batman glanced around him.

The infirmary nurse was at her desk, going through files or some such busy work. She wasn't looking at them_._ The infirmary had only one patient--the others had been transferred to a "real" hospital, pending a final judgment as to whether the neutralizing agent would work or not. The word had come down earlier that afternoon--the Joker was finally free of the toxic compound that had somehow been introduced into his bloodstream.

Gotham was safe.

Whether the Joker would survive the after-effects of the infestation--much less its treatment--remained to be seen.

Batman leaned forward and whispered to the unconscious man, "No fun, huh, buddy? No fun at all..." He slipped his hand out of his gauntlet and gently pushed a stray strand of freshly-washed blond hair from the unpainted brow. Without the makeup, the Joker--Jack--looked young and, weirdly, _innocent_. His expression was blank, untroubled.

Batman glanced behind himself again, and, assured of the nurse's infinite lack of interest, ran two fingers along the brutally scarred cheek, playing alongside the mouth, skirting the respirator tube, down to the strong chin, which he clasped in his hand for a long moment, feeling his warmth. Yes, he was still alive, the three day's growth of beard scratchy under his hand. They hadn't bother to shave him yet, perhaps thinking he'd be dead soon enough, they could leave that little task to the mortician... Concentrating, the Bat pressed his hand against the side of the Joker's neck, trying to send his own energy into the clown's weakened body.

"Wake up, Jack. Just--wake up," he murmured.

No response.

Batman settled back into the chair.

He was waiting.

He'd wait until the clown woke up.

He'd wait forever if he had to.

*********

I don't know what you want from me, Doc, I've told you everything there is to know. Depressed alcoholic mother, disappearing-act father, long-running cast of characters in the way of Mommy's boyfriends, only _some_ of whom were _actual_ pedophiles... Listen, I've always wondered--is it still abuse if you LIKE it? Mm, thought so, thanks for clearing that up.

Aw, hey, I was just kidding. Funny how life is. The first time I stabbed a guy, it was 'cause he wanted me to, you know... He was making me...but now? All I seem to care about is getting back to that. With the Bat, I mean. No one else.

Just him.

Say, Doc, what are you, a Freudian? Jungian, what? _Rogerian? _Not familiar with his work. Well, they say you go for people who remind you of your mother, you think the Bat reminds me of _my _mother? Maybe, if she'd been given to going around in an idiotic Kevlar costume, throwing me out of windows, heh heh...Or, if he were given to slitting his wrists and downing whole bottles of tranquilizers on a lovely Friday afternoon.

Yeah, I found her, so what? It was at least the third time, she was such a fuck-up she couldn't even killherself right on the first go-round, I--what? How'd it make me _feel? _I don't know, Doc, how do you think it made me feel?How do you _think _it....ah, shit.

_...Alone, _doc_. _It made...me feel...alone. There, happy? Are you happy to see my fucking gutsspillin' out all over the floor? Are you...? I_--_No, don't do that. Don't do that, don't. Don't. Don't call 'em, I'll be good, I'll be good. I told the Bat I'd be good...

Look, I'm tired, I don't want to talk to you anymore. I just want to go back to my room. I just want...I just wanna watch some TV. Hey, what's the time? Ah, ha ha, time for the news, can I watch the news, Doc? I really like the news...

********

_No fun...my babe...no fun...._

What the fuck...?

_No fun...my babe...no fun...._

That old song.

_No fun to be alone...._

Shit.

_Alone and by myself...._

"This is no fun, all right," he thought grimly.

The Joker came to consciousness with the good old song rattling in his brain. A throwback to the old days, when they played the early stuff--Iggy, the Dolls, the Ramones, Pistols--blasting raw sounds out of a cheap boom box while the dark party degenerated into a sniffing, huffing, shooting, smoking state of oblivion. All brought to you courtesy of one Jack Napier, at your service...

He'd laughed at those fools; it was _funny, _watching 'em dehydrate their brains with the chemicals, numb their wits with white powder, or infuse their lungs with all-natural mind-altering substances while he picked their pockets, both literally and figuratively. And now here he was, lying in a bed like a chump, unable to move his arms or legs, unable to even open his eyes.

The Joker wantedto open his eyes but there was an elephant sitting on them. Or, maybe it was two separate, smallish elephants, one for each eye... He wanted to cry out, but there was something in his mouth that trailed down into his throat, and he couldn't move his tongue well enough to form a word anyway. Plus, his lips were dried out like nobody's business, cracked, and it hurt to move them.

He felt..._broken..._

"No fun, huh, buddy?" Something soft brushed across his cheek, gently following the lines of his scar. The pleasure of the gentle caress hit him square in the crotch, and he discovered that he'd been catheterized.

_No fun to be alone...walking by myself...no fun to be alone...in love...with nobody else...._

The Joker forced one eye open, then the other. His vision was blurry and everything looked gray for a moment, then he centered on the large, dark object surrounding the sound of that voice and saw...his Bat.

He wanted to sit up, but there was a strap across his chest. He tried to pull up his knees, but his ankles were also restrained, as were his hands, which he discovered when he tried to reach down to yank the damn catheter out of his penis--he grunted in frustration, and that hurt his throat.

"Easy, there, Jack, take it easy. Let me get someone..."

"Hey, Batsy," he thought, wishing he could speak_, _"nothing like having a foreign object jammed into one bodily orifice or another, is there? Well, take it from me, some are more fun than others..."

His vision had returned and he observed the forest of clear IV bags hanging on either side of his head, and something was beeping...he heard heavy footsteps and that voice, "He's awake," followed by a girlish gasp and a call, "Nurse Rowan! Nurse Rowan, he's awake! The Batman says he's awake!"

Soon a little flurry of feminine noises and two female faces were now peering at him. A cool hand on the pulse point of his neck, and a soft voice saying "On the count of three, give us a big cough, ok?" The brunette was looking at him, waiting for his response. He couldn't utter a single word, but he managed a weak nod. Cold hands now held his shoulders down, and the other woman took hold of the respirator tube and began a steady tugging action, pulling it from his lungs, and with a painful cough, he expelled the hateful plastic from his mouth.

He thought, "That felt better and hurt more at the same time than just about anything I can remember, well, recently, anyway..."

The Joker sputtered and greedily sucked in the air, then lay panting, exhausted, and the whole little crowed stood around him, staring as if they were waiting for him to hatch.

"Bats..." he whispered.

"Shhh...don't try to talk," directed Nurse Rowan. "It's ok. Just relax."

The nurse's aide was busy taking his blood pressure and his temperature, and he kept his eyes on Batman, like a dog watching his owner eat a t-bone steak.

When the women were done, they started to head back to their gathering point at the back of the infirmary, but Batman spoke commandingly.

"Leave us. I need to interrogate him."

They glanced at each other and whispered anxiously for a moment. Finally, the head nurse looked at him with an appraising stare, obviously weighing the situation in terms of how much trouble she would be in for defying Batman versus how much trouble she'd be in if anything..._happened. _To either of the men. The man in the cape looked very powerful, and the man on the bed looked very weak, but still... Finally, she sighed.

"All right, Mr., uh--sir. Remember, he can't take much, so...be careful. We'll be right outside if you need anything."

Batman silently watched them exit then turned back to the Joker and smiled. He lay a warm hand on Jack's cheek and gently swiped his fingertips over the side of his face.

"How do you feel?"

"Like...shit," the clown rasped.

"Look like it, too." Batman carefully unbuckled the heavy canvas strap from the Joker's left wrist, picked up his hand and pressed the palm to his mouth.

"You're going to be ok."

Jack stared at him, disbelieving. He must have died. The Bat would never treat him so kindly, would never press those gentle lips against his own flesh, would never speak in such soft, comforting tones...he tried to smile, but his lips felt as if they would crack and shatter, and the Bat filled a plastic cup with ice water and helped him sit up enough to take a drink.

The cold filled the his mouth and rolled down his raw, parched throat. He kept his eyes on his Bat, still not sure, not sure _at all _that he was a citizen of Earth and that this creature in a bat suit wasn't some sort of holy apparition sent to lull him into a false sense of security while the panel of judges decided which particular level of hell he would be assigned to.

"Please..." he whispered. Batman's strong arm around his shoulders felt like heaven.

"What is it Jack? What do you need?"

"Be square with me, Bats--am I alive?"

Batman grinned.

"Yeah. You are. We...sort of lost you there, for a couple of minutes. But, you came back. More water?"

Jack nodded, and was given another sip. He tried to reach for the Bat's face, just the lower part, not under the mask. Batman pressed the Joker's hand against him for just a moment.

"They'll be coming back any minute. You need to sleep. Sorry, I have to do this." He put the Joker's hand back and replaced the strap on his wrist. The Joker never took his eyes off the bigger man.

"I died?"

"Your heart stopped. It took a few tries before they got it started again...do you remember?"

The Joker shook his head slowly. It felt heavy, and the elephant wanted to reclaim its perch.

"Rest, now. I'll be here when you wake up."

"What an accommodating little apparition you are, Batsy," was the Joker's thought as he slipped into a deep slumber.

******

Batman stepped out of the infirmary, leaving the Joker to sleep. He needed a break, to stretch his legs and maybe get some food. Jim Gordon was waiting for him in the hall, arms crossed, a serious look on his face.

"Get anything out of him?"

"No. Not yet. He can barely talk."

"We have a lead." Jim glanced up and down the hallway. "An intern from the Medical Research Unit here in Arkham was caught on camera visiting Jonathan Crane. Several times."

"Scarecrow?"

"Yeah. Turns out this kid is the one who was administering the Joker's shots for the medicine trial."

"Interesting."

"Yes. I'm going to interrogate him this afternoon. I have a feeling Scarecrow had something to do with all this."

"He has the skill."

"Right. Now to find out if he had a motive..."

**********

Why'd I do it? Why'd I do _what? _Oh, that. The killings and the explosions and the jokes and so on. Well, it's like this, Doc--do you remember what they asked that guy who wanted to climb Mt. Everest? They asked him the same thing--why? Why do you want to do such a thing? You know what he said? He said "Because it's there." I _love_ that guy, what was his name...? Can't remember.

But, that's not myanswer, no. My answer is...because I _could._ Because Gotham is such a swirling cesspool of corruption and injustice and rotting from the inside out, it was just waiting for someone like me to come along and take it to a new level. To turn it into the wacko funhouse it was always meant to be.

Let's face it, a town that can't even protect a woman and a thirteen year old boy doesn't have much of a future anyway, right Doc?

Thirteen, yeah, that's when I got these scars. Dear ol' Mommy got into some trouble with her mobster boyfriend. She tried and tried to get some help, to get the cops to do something for her, but they just laughed. She decided we needed to disappear, so overnight we packed a few things and headed out of the city.

But--he caught us. And he thought it would be way more satisfying to make her watch while he did stuff to me than to do it to her, and that's how I got these babies, see? His pals held her down while he carved my face... She killed herself three days after I got home from the hospital. Couldn't take the guilt, I guess.

Not a fucking cop in Gotham gave a shit.

How did it make me feel--this again? All right, all right, well, this might come as a shock to you, but I was angry. And I didn't just sit around thinking it over, I took it out on the people I thought deserved it the most, the mob fools, the dirty cops, a couple of useless social workers for good measure...but then I figured it out. Those are just the obvious targets, the corrupt little tips of the iceberg. What lies beneath is much bigger, much more expansive.

So, eventually, I decided to point out a few things. Create a little chaos, shake things up. I started with a few playing cards and a little face paint, and they called me the Joker. Because it was easy. Easier than thinking. Easier than trying to understand the message.

It's like I always say--people are sheep. They're easy to manipulate if you understand their motivation--they only care about their own skin, what they can get for themselves.

I've tried explaining that to the Bat, but he doesn't listen. He never does. Let's face it, he'll always prefer his own insulated version of reality to my unvarnished truths. Such an idealist. Such a...hero.

I'm called the villain. Because I speak the truth. Because I hold up a mirror and show people who they really are. But...what good does it do? Ha. Nothing ever changes. No one ever listens. No one cares.

Mallory. That was the name of the guy who climbed Everest.

They never found his body...

*********

Jim Gordon had Jonathan Crane brought to an office, making sure he was well-restrained and guarded. The doctor was more or less thrown into a seat across a desk from Gordon, bearing an insolent smirk on his face.

"What's this all about, Commissioner?"

"The Joker was infected with a rapidly-mutating chemical toxin. We now know that an intern in the Medical Research facility was responsible for injecting him with it; however, he has stated that _you_ were responsible for creating it. What do you have to say about that?" asked Jim.

"Oh, please. How could I be responsible for anything going on over there? I've been locked up tight."

"We have evidence of the intern making numerous unauthorized visits to your cell."

"So? I can't help it if the young man became taken with me."

"I see. So, he was able to concoct such a complicated formula on his own...."

This rankled the doctor.

"That little moron? Don't be stupid. He could never even _envision_ such a product."

"Really? Then, if it wasn't you, he must have had help from someone else... Let's see, Monroe? Rodriguez? Nguyen?"

"No! No, no, for God's sake, those idiots couldn't mix bleach and ammonia without a diagram. No one could put together something as elegant as my kill toxin but me. Have you not read any of my papers?"

"Uh, no, but, you say this is _your_ 'kill toxin'?

"Of course. I blended the basic components years ago--I was going to follow up my wonderful fear toxin with it, but never had the chance. Then Robert came along. _He_ did what I couldn't, but don't go giving him any credit. He was just a flunky."

"I see. Well--may I ask why you chose the Joker to be the, uh, host for this toxin?"

Jonathan's already mad eyes glazed a bit more at the mention of the hated name.

"The _Joker," _he sneered. "What an appropriate name for such a useless waste of skin. All right. I'll tell you why. The man is a soulless, miserable bastard with no regard for--for the needs...the feelings...of others. He's a user, a taker, he has no respect. And I--I was stupid enough to, to let him..." Jonathan's voice caught and he turned his face away from Gordon.

Jim frowned in thought. "Are you saying that you had some sort of 'romantic' relationship with the Joker?" asked Jim incredulously.

The doctor gave a slight nod.

"He made me care for him, all right? He made me...think about him. All the time. Then, when he grew bored, he tossed me aside." The faint voice suddenly gained strength.

"No one treats Jonathan Crane like that. _No one. _So, I decided to kill two birds with one stone--almost literally! I had planned to have Robert smuggle in a gas mask and a knife for me. I would go to the cafeteria, where I would facilitate a fight between the Joker and a now-armed fellow lunatic. I would quietly go off and don the mask, and when the Joker was stabbed--not only would he die, but so would everyone else in a five-mile range. I'd be free to return to my old lab to gather my earlier work, then to walk out of Arkham at my leisure. I could then leave the city and...start fresh somewhere else." The man shrugged and cast a cheery smile at Gordon, but it quickly faded.

"Leave it to the damn Joker to fuck everything up," he hissed as Jim ordered his men to return Crane to his cell.

**********

They moved the Joker to a private room.

Batman, unofficially working on behalf of the police department, watched over the proceedings, even though no one seriously believed the Joker to be capable of conducting any mischief in his current state. Besides, Batman still had unanswered questions.

Once the patient was settled, still attached to IVs and monitors, the two arch-nemeses were left alone. The Joker was awake and he smiled weakly once the last orderly shut the door behind himself.

"Hey, Bats...you responsible for getting me these posh accommodations?"

"Indirectly, I suppose. You're feeling well enough to be a smart-ass, can I ask you some questions?"

"Oh, sure, I'm feeling real chatty."

"Why'd you fuck Crane?"

Uh-oh.

The Joker looked at a loss...but there was no point in lying. The Bat would know.

"I...look, Bats, I didn't think I'd ever see you again. You left me hanging on the side of that building, and then they locked me up and you didn't come to see me for ages. I...just needed a distraction. Something--well, _someone, _heh heh_--_to do. It didn't mean anything. How'd you find out about that, anyway?" he asked gingerly.

"Crane mentioned it when they interrogated him."

The Joker made a derisive sound.

"Little wimp, can't hold up under the bright lights, can he?"

"I guess not."

They were both silent a moment then the Joker asked worriedly, "So, are you mad?"

"No. I don't blame you. I meant never to see you again. But...I couldn't stay away. I finally gave in and came to check on you."

The Joker grinned.

"I know. I saw you. I knew what that meant. The second I spotted you, Crane was history."

"Mm-hmm. He said you'd seduced him then cast him aside when you lost interest. That's why he gave you the poison."

The Joker gave Batman a look of consternation.

"He tried to kill me because I wouldn't fuck him anymore? What a hothead."

"You must be one hell of a lay." Batman said with half a grin.

"Yeah! Speaking of which, come on over here and I'll give you the best blowjob you ever had in your _life..."_

"No, clown. Not yet. You're still too sick."

"That's your opinion. But, ok, then, help me pull my pants down and you can fuck me--"

The big man leaned over the Joker's bed and kissed him gently. "I said, _'No.'_" He ran a gloved finger over a bandage securing an IV needle in the blond man's arm to make his point.

"But...I don't care! I want to."

"I know. I know. Don't worry, that _will_ happen. Soon. But right now, you need to concentrate on getting your strength back."

The Joker shot him a sullen look, but he relaxed when the Bat settled into a chair next to him and switched on the television. The pair soon became engrossed in an old horror movie, something they both remembered from childhood.

*********

I don't dream, Doc. I wish you'd quit asking about that. Maybe it's the meds or something, but I never dream. Oh, I used to, before I came here. Of course, after I met Bats, the only ones I could ever remember were about _him_...real vivid stuff, lots of chasing, and blood and guts and organs splashing around and so on, but sometimes... Sometimes, I'd dream I was flying. I always liked those dreams, don't you, Doc? They say that's a common one, but it didn't happen to me very often.

Someday, I'd like to dream I was flying again...

*********

The masked man entered the room. Jack was actually sitting up, wearing a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, the TV was on and a book was in his hand. He looked up at his visitor and grinned, blond tangles framing his face, looking alert and impish.

"Feeling better?" asked the Bat.

"Yeah, notice anything?"

Batman looked around the Joker's bed. All the medical equipment was gone.

"Progress. You'll be back to normal in no time. Not that that's a good thing."

"Now, now...I'm still chock full of all kinds of psychotropic drugs, I'd be hard-pressed to get up to any fiendish shenanigans for a while."

Batman sat down next to the clown, put his arms around him and gave him a deep kiss. Jack seemed to melt into his arms and they held each other a long time. Batman pulled back and to Jack's infinite surprise, began removing his mask, cape and cowl. The clown sat staring with his mouth open as the handsome visage of Bruce Wayne was revealed.

"Well, fuck. Why'd you--"

"I'm not going to hide who I am from you. If you decide to reveal my secret, so be it. I'm probably out of my mind being here with you anyway, so I can't be held responsible for my decisions." The smooth, warm voice fell comfortingly on the Joker's ears.

"Bruce Wayne. _Damn."_

The two men smiled at each other then Jack flung himself into the still-Kevlar covered arms. Bruce brushed his forehead with his lips and they kissed again, hungrily this time, then quickly found themselves lying together on the bed, exploring each other's mouths, then biting bare necks and throats. Bruce looked at him and said hoarsely, "So...how're you, uh, _feeling?"_

"Like if you don't take off the rest of that stupid costume, I'll tear it off for you." He watched as Bruce smirked and stood up, and began removing the rest of his outfit.

"How about you getting out of yours, too?" he asked as he dropped the last item to the floor, and placed a chair in front of the door to assure their privacy. By the time he turned back, the Joker was naked.

The two fell together, each eager for the other's body. Bruce had brought something to help prepare his soon-to-be lover, and Jack arched against the billionaire when his fingers entered him. "Don't bother, Bats, just do it..." he gasped.

"No. We've waited so long for this, I'm not going to rush, and I'm _not_ going to hurt you," he admonished. Jack lay under him, and reluctantly nodded. They began making out again, and after several long, delicious moments, Bruce whispered, "Ready?"

Jack nodded again, and Bruce got on top of him. He eased into his clown, amazed at the sensation of the other's body opening up to him and how they seemed to fit perfectly together. The Joker wrapped himself around his bat and moaned into his ear. Bruce stopped and pulled back to look into his eyes.

"You ok?"

"Yeah...keep going..." Bruce smiled and nodded, and continued pushing deeper into his lover's warmth.

"God, you're big--" the Joker groaned when he finally felt Bruce's pelvic area pressed tightly against his own.

"Is that a problem?"

"Nope...not moving, however,_ is_. Come on, Bat-boy, let's do this...."

Bruce began rocking into him, each thrust a powerful stroke of utter pleasure, and they thrashed more and more violently against each other, Batman seeking to thrust ever more deeply into the tight channel, the Joker desperately needing more and more rapid friction against his prostate, while at the same time feverishly working his erection until thick creamy fluid spurted onto his belly and chest.

Bruce briefly slowed his pace so he could enjoy the sight of his lover reaching climax, then pulled out and said, "Turn over," in a commanding voice. Jack grinned and obeyed, scrunching up his pillow and allowing the bigger man to finish satisfying his need for him while the blond slowly recovered from his own intense release.

Even after Bruce finished, he remained entwined around Jack's skinny body, his member still sheathed deep inside the man he had waited so long to take. Jack could feel twitching, little aftershocks that caused the billionaire to thrust a few more times until he became settled and quiet. They lay like that for a long time, listening to each other breathe, to their heartbeats and to the muffled sounds of the hospital ward beyond the closed door.

Finally, Bruce pulled away, stood up and began to dress. Jack sat up and watched him, distractedly running his hand through his hair.

"Will you come back?" he asked awkwardly.

Bruce held the last item of his costume, his mask, in his hands as he met Jack's gaze.

"As long as you're where you're supposed to be, doing what you're supposed to do, I'll come back. I'll always come back."

He stole one last kiss, replaced the mask and was gone.

The Joker stared after him.

In a puzzled voice he asked, "Where would I go?" to the empty room.

*******

The Bat? What about him? Yeah, I'm doing him, big surprise there, huh? Hey, this _is _confidential, right? I don't care for myself, but I don't want to fuck up his life anymore than it already is. Don't want to screw things up between us, either. It's more than just sex, see? More like a...whaddya call it...soul mate? Yeah, he's like my soul mate or something. We understand each other, there's no bullshit between us...we need each other. Complete each other.

I see him every week, sometimes more...depends on what's going on. You know, "out there."

Of _course _I know who he "really" is. You think we do it with that mask on? Oh, maybe once or twice at first, but he says that suit gets really itchy when you start sweating and...oh, no, I know. I've known for a while.

Everyone thought I was so hot to find out his "secret identity"--as if I cared who he was--he could have been a painter, or a plumber or a ditch digger for all I cared, it didn't matter to me.

I just like a challenge.

And I won't tell _you _who he is_._

But he's gorgeous. Absolutely fucking gorgeous.

Sometimes, when we're, ahem, "together?" I can't believe it. I can't believe we found each other.

Although, I guess it was inevitable. Two forces of nature, equal and opposite, destined to crash into each other. Heh heh, sparks do fly....

Someday, I'm going to get out of here, Doc. Then, we'll reallybe together...no, I don't mean escape, not like that...it'll be 'cause I'm better. Why do you think I volunteered for that medical experiment in the first place? I thought that new drug would help me get well.

I-I _want_ to get well. So I could be with Bats.

I just...I just want to be with him. And I will be. Someday.

Someday...he'll pick me up in one of his ridiculously expensive cars and take me home with him. We'll sit down to dinner together and I'll say "So, Batsy, you want to go to a movie or something?" And he'll say, "No, Jack, I think I'd rather just stay in with you, if that's all right." And I'll say, "Yeah, Bats, that's all right. That's what I want to do, too...."

Someday, I bet we'll be together all the time. Then, I won't have to be alone so much. Then, I won't be such a freak.

And, maybe...someday? I'll have that dream again.

Maybe someday...I'll dream that I'm flying.

**The End.**

*********

**Notes and Credits:** The song "No Fun" was written by David Alexander, Ronald Ashton, Scott Ashton and James Osterberg (Iggy Pop); however what the Joker hears in his head is the Sex Pistol's blistering version.

George Mallory was an English mountaineer who was lost on Everest in 1924. His body actually _was_ found 75 years later, in 1999, but we'll assume the Joker was too busy causing mayhem to keep up with mountaineering news.

Carl Rogers was an American psychologist, founder of the "humanistic" approach to therapy. A Rogerian psychologist probably isn't the best choice for the Joker, but who knows?

It is thought that being able to fly in your dreams indicates that you are having a sense of personal power and liberation.


End file.
